The Marathon Conspiracy

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Pericles didn’t usually keep a human skull on his desk, but there was one there now. The skull lay upon a battered old scroll case and stared at me with a vacant expression, as if it were bored by the whole process of being dead.

I stood mute, determined not to mention the skull. Pericles had a taste for theatrics, and I saw no reason to pander to it.

Pericles sat behind the desk, a man of astonishing good looks but for the shape of his head, which was unnaturally elongated. This one blemish seemed a fair bargain for someone on whom the gods had bestowed almost every possible talent, yet Pericles was as vain as a woman about his head and frequently wore a hat to cover it. He didn’t at the moment, though; he knew there was no point trying to impress me.

In the lengthening silence, he eventually said, “I suppose you’re wondering why there’s a skull on my desk.”

I was tempted to say, “What skull?” But I knew he’d never believe it. So instead I said, “It does rather stand out. A former enemy?”

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